Douchebag Property Mgmt, here to screw you.

It's been 2 months since I let loose a steady stream of tears that Native Americans would have considered not canoeing down because they were treacherous and emotional. I was a mixture of irritation and bitchiness. And I cracked.


In regards to our previous condo, we had given notice like good tenant informing that in 31 days we'd be vacating the dwelling we called home for 370 days (our lease was prorated). Our landlord understood, no hard feelings. I may have also forged the vessel saying we were 'moving on base' because of a housing deal they had going on. Why? Because people are less likely to try and convince you otherwise when it's Uncle Sam's involving. So we lied. We wanted new digs. The end.


We hit the snag when it came to the property management. Snatches.


They required you fill out a form to move out (seriously??), you have only a 4-hour window to move out (wtf??), you have to pay to move out (SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!?). They maintain it's to ensure there's no damage to the building upon moveout. Riiight.


So yes, the almighty property management charges you $75 to move out during the week and $125 to move out on the weekends.


But let's get back to the crying...


First, don't think we didn't try to fight this every which way, because when a Ginger gets angry....watch.out. We kept maintaining that it wasn't in our lease, so we weren't going to pay it. We were alone in that fight. The property management says it's the "tenants' responsibility," so take it up with your owners. So I went to our landlord..."It's not in our lease." Sorry Ginger, dickhole says we have to pay it. What.the.FRONT.DOOR?!?!


Then we found out, pay up or risk being assessed a $500 fee for an "improper move-out."


$125 > $500


With Mr. Wookie doing all the calls to trying to get us out of this, there wasn't anyway Uncle Sam would let him leave work to fork over our funds.


So I'm forced to leave work early. Forced to drive down to the property management. Forced to sign over money and an application with our intentions (umm...move out of this Communistic place?). Forced to not 300-style kick the pregnant lady for being the snatch that's all cheery in taking my money. And forced to wrap my head around this short window to move an entire home out of the old place.


Phew. That's in place. We're ready to move the next day. I call Mr. Wookie to confirm the news that we got the time frame on Saturday to put 3 JO's to work being our slaves. Then...a call comes in, unknown, so I let it roll to voicemail.


"Hi Ashley, this is Mary (her real name - bitch), from Douchebag Property Management, we've received your application, but unfortunately it seems to be too late to process. Your move won't happen this weekend. We're closed now. Please call again Monday."


F*** you! I absolutely lost it. After all the emotion put in to fighting this issue, and finally surrendering to the douche-ish ways that were to be with this move, and having to pay to move out of our building...we lose...again. I was red, I was blotchy, I was blubbery, and I was all sorts of Mr.-Wookie-didn't-want-to-see-me-cry-because-it-just-makes-him-angrier.


So Mr. Wookie sends an email to Mary (muahhaha - bitch). An email he wouldn't let me read (must have been bad, eh - bitch!). But I know he was furious. After being the point of contact throughout this whole process, you don't leave a voicemail for the other party stating your intentions. So 20 minutes later, we have a response. "Your move has been processed for Saturday. Have a good weekend." (Suck it - bitch!!).


Wookie for the win.


So we moved out, without too much further hassle. The JO's were wonderful for their muscles. And I even researched Small Claims Court, because I don't like being man-handled. But it just wasn't worth it to us to go after the owner, the landlord, and the court system for the small amount of money that'd be left post-fees. So we're washing it under the bridge. We're the better people. We know it.


And you better believe I had the world's biggest cocktail to help calm my nerves that day. But thinking about it now, I should have asked for an IV drip instead. Save myself the trip to the freezer for more ice and a refill.


So I can now join the ranks of the milspouses with good stories. I may need some Kahlua in my coffee if I keep reliving the nightmare though. Or maybe I should relive it...;)